


Enthusiasm Paraphernalia

by schatzchen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Bed-Wetting, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-13 09:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21241829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schatzchen/pseuds/schatzchen
Summary: The eyes that met Harry were all but unkind. They were inviting, dark in the ice cold of their blue. Unsettling, as if they had caught Harry in the middle of a cardinal sin, they bore through him, and something within him screamed at him torun, run far away, don't look back. A wilder, stronger part within screamed at him tostay.Surrender.In which Harry suffers from PTSD following his parents' deaths, and Doctor Riddle is his therapist.





	1. Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from dracula teeth by the last shadow puppets - the song that inspired me to write this fic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a bad dream.

For all he was worth, Harry Potter prided himself on being strong. After his parents' untimely deaths, he had spent most of his teenage years cared for by his aunt and uncle, eventually making it out in one piece when he had been old enough to move out. There had been no choice but to learn to care for himself, isolated despite his friends' best efforts, fine to the degree that he could possibly be.

Thus, he had never felt as much of a fraud as when he woke up panting from yet another nightmare. A scream was lodged in his throat, and to his horror, he found his pyjamas soaking wet, and not only from sweat. His body burned in spite of the open window, his head throbbing, eyes unfocused as he frantically, blindly reached over to the other side of the bed as if Ginny would still be there.

When everything came back to him and he had finally managed to put his glasses on, he thought that yeah, it was probably for the best that she was not there anymore. Being with somebody like him took its toll, he thought, and scoffed as his sticky pyjama bottoms clung to his legs when he sat up. Still, disregarding his best efforts, his heart stung at the thought of Ginny.

After his pyjamas were safely stored in a plastic bag in the washing bin, there was no distraction from the painful thud thud thud of his heart. It kept him on his toes, and there was no way he would ever be able to go back to sleep in such a condition. He therefore took to pacing, biting at the cuticles of his thumb until all that was left was an unattractive mess. 

"Fuck," he said as he dialed his go-to, somebody who always knew just how to calm him down.

"Harry? It's six in the morning," came Hermione's reply, groggy with sleep. When Harry was unable to reply, she tentatively asked, "What's wrong?"

"Sorry about calling," Harry said. "I didn't realise how early it was… I just… I had a nightmare, I think," he said, still pacing, still biting his thumb until he jammed it in his pocket.

"Wh - About what?" Hermione said, sounding slightly more awake than before.

"I don't know, I was just wondering, sort of, if maybe we could meet up today?"

"Oh, Harry," she said, and Harry winced at the pity in her voice. "I'd really like to, but we've got the ultrasound today, remember?"

"Oh yeah, of course," Harry said, cursing himself for even picking up the phone in the first place. Having been awake for a good fifteen minutes already, it seemed quite stupid to keep talking, keep holding her up.

"You should come over for dinner tonight, though," Hermione said. Before Harry could say anything, Hermione continued, "Ginny won't be there. Just you, me, and Ron. Would that be good?"

Harry could not help the feeling that Hermione was only inviting him over out of pity.

"Yeah," Harry agreed after a few seconds of silence. "What time?"

In all honesty, Harry was exhausted. He was so bloody exhausted of always being so strong, all the time, everywhere he went. The pitying glances and thoughtful hands on his shoulder had been comforting for the first while, when he was still young and naive, when the hole his parents had left was still bruised and gaping, absolutely begging to be filled by empty assurances. Now, they stood out as the falsities they were.

Thus, he had to be strong. If even one more person asked him _but how are you, really?_ he might just go insane.

To make matter worse, the way he was treated at the police academy was borderline appalling. He had passed his physicals just fine, above average, in fact, but that was no reason the instructors should treat him as if he was royalty. 

_"Your parents' sacrifice, mister Potter! We owe them a whole lot!"_

Fucking bullshit.

_Sacrifice,_ Harry snorted. All his parents had done was to be cops, in service, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and get murdered by a couple of gang members in a public enough way to spark national outrage. That was it. Yet the entire precinct welcomed Harry with open arms and adoration he did not deserve.

When the day ended, Harry could not get out fast enough, hastily changing into his civilian clothes and rushing off to catch the tube, as to be on time for dinner with Hermione and Ron.

"I'm just saying, Harry, I think maybe you should consider talking to somebody," Hermione said, voice getting higher with desperation. As if trying to calm herself, she had resorted to stroking the bulge of her stomach growing bigger with each passing month. The thought of the life growing inside of her was enough to momentarily distract Harry from what she had just said, but when he snapped back to reality and her kind brown eyes, he scoffed 

"I can take care of it myself. They're just nightmares, Hermione, I've had them since I was fourteen."

Hermione looked over to Ron, eyes wide and pleading for him to interject. "Mate, don't take this the wrong way, but please accept our help."

Pleased with his response, Hermione nodded. "Besides, didn't you say the nightmares have gotten worse since you started at the academy?"

The abandoned, empty plates lay spread across the table, and Harry busied himself, avoided eye contact by toying with the fork on his plate. 

"Harry," Hermione said, pulling him away from his momentary distraction. "I can't stand to see you break like this."

Her fingers danced over his forearm, and it took everything in him not to flinch. Then, when her eyes grew wider and to Harry's surprise, even Ron nodded, Harry sighed. "Fine. I'll contact them."

When he said goodbye to them, when he saw their smiles, wished them a good night, the forefront of his mind could only focus on the pleased smile that had adorned both their faces when he had agreed to 'get help', whatever that meant. Of course, with a baby on the way, having Harry out of the way had to be a relief.


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Doctor Riddle.

After five minutes of waiting, the skin on Harry's thumb had been thoroughly bitten. Cuticles torn and blood gathering around his nail, Harry was forced to turn his attention elsewhere, to the table beside him where he grabbed a napkin to wipe the blood. His knee bounced, almost uncontrollably as he attempted to calm himself. A sip of water. A look over the portrait paintings lining the walls. The hardwood floor, albeit expensive looking, emitted a sort of cold that seemed to permeate the entire waiting room of the therapist's' office.

It was Hermione's fault. All her fault. If it were not for her, Harry would be at home, having a cuppa, skimming through a book (he ignored the fact that he had not read a single book since his senior year), 

Having a panic attack.

Even though Harry had half the mind to bolt, leave this incredibly uncomfortable situation behind, he stayed put when he thought of last night's… episode. It had come suddenly, like it so often did, with a terrible flash that rendered him helpless, gasping for air on the floor. Perhaps having this session would help.

Harry put the napkin down on the table beside him. There was a red dot in the middle, smaller than one would have thought, but enough to confirm that he had in fact bitten through the skin on his thumb, left an ugly wound right by the bed of his nail. Perhaps the therapist would have some kind of remedy for that less-than-charming habit.

Just as he had put it down, a door by the corridor opened, and Harry's eyes shifted towards it in an instant. Even with his prescription glasses, the man he saw was blurry, and he had to squint to see him.

"Harry Potter?"

"Yep," Harry replied, standing up from his chair and putting the napkin in the pocket of his jeans. The closer he came to the man and the door he was holding up, the clearer he became.

_Oh._

Clear blue eyes that shone through despite being bloodshot. A smile on smooth lips, as if the man had been applying lip balm religiously for years. Harry suddenly felt self-conscious about his red-bitten, chapped lips. The man had a pale hand outstretched, urging Harry to shake it, and as if in a trance, Harry grabbed it.

"Ah, welcome, Harry. I'm Doctor Riddle."

Baring a bright smile, perfectly straight teeth and pointy canines exposed, the doctor grabbed Harry's hand and shook it gently, soft fingers wrapping around Harry's. Each digit left an imprint, or so it felt, electricity shooting up Harry's arm when the grip loosened. Without being able to stop himself, Harry had smiled, and quickly diverted himself by scratching at the nape of his neck, as if that would stop the adrenaline rush he got whenever he looked back at Riddle.

"My office is right at the end, here. Follow me, if you will."

Walking two steps behind the doctor, Harry had nowhere to look but at the man in question. The dark corridor was drab in contrast with the man, who wore a smart suit, crisp white shirt to accompany his polished shoes. Harry had no idea what he had expected, but such a handsome doctor, who could not be a day over thirty-five, was far from it. 

"Quite austere, this place. I tell them everyday that our clients would likely benefit from just a bit more colour," Riddle said, looking back over his shoulder at Harry, who without meaning to, let out a laugh.

_Calm down._ "It's a bit depressing." Harry was not one to overthink his words, and was pleasantly surprised by the chuckle he received from the doctor.

At the end of the corridor, Riddle opened a door, revealing an office with large windows, heavy green curtains, the same hardwood floor of the waiting room, although covered by a green carpet that matched the curtains. Harry looked back at the man to see him smiling, eyes locked on Harry, waving a hand to gesture for Harry to enter the room.

"Where do I sit?" Harry said as he looked over the two comfortable looking armchairs.

Riddle came in after him, closing the door and turning his attention back to Harry. "You can take a seat right there." Riddle gestured towards one of the armchairs before walking over to his desk, picking up a black notebook and taking a seat on the other armchair across from Harry. Harry understood why the doctor had chosen these particular chairs, as he felt himself sinking into it.

"So, Harry," Riddle began, opening his notebook and writing something at the top of the page. "I want to begin by discussing our privacy agreement." Harry nodded. "I am, under no circumstances, permitted to speak of what happens during these sessions. This is a safe space for you, and unless I suspect you're either going to hurt others or yourself, everything that happens in this room stays in this room."

Again, Harry nodded. His friends knew everything that was wrong with him, anyway, and found himself thinking that he probably would not mind having Hermione at his side during the session.

"Right, then," Riddle smiled. For a moment, Harry thought he caught something, a spark in the icy blue of Riddle's eyes, and promptly looked away in order not to meet them head-first. "You're also allowed to stop me, if at any point you feel that I am pushing you."

Well, how was Harry supposed to say _anything at all_ to the man, when every glance sent something strange, unfamiliar shooting through him? On instinct, he jammed his thumb between his lips, nervously biting the skin as he nodded, yet again. The nods were beginning to feel repetitive, and so Harry cleared his throat before speaking. "Yeah, 'course."

Pleased with the answer, Riddle leaned back in his chair, making another note despite them being only a minute into the session. "Have you been to therapy before?"

"No, I mean, not really."

"What do you mean?"

"They made me go when my parents died, but it was two meetings with the school counselor," Harry said. "And then I had to talk to some psychiatrist when I enrolled in the academy, but yeah, that's it. So no."

During his monologue, Harry had leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs as his knee started bouncing again. Riddle's eyes drifted down, as if analysing his body language, eyes narrowed and pen hovering above the page, before snapping back to Harry with a smile.

"And why have you chosen to seek help now?"

Harry shrugged, thumb going back between his teeth before he thought better of it and shoved his hand between his knees. "It's just my friends. They're worried or something. To be fair I've been a bit, uh," Harry laughed, scratching his neck and refusing to meet Riddle's eyes as he spoke. "I guess I've been a bit annoying."

"I see. How exactly have you been annoying them, do you think?"

The formality of his words had Harry on edge. "Things like… well, a few days ago I woke up from a nightmare, I think. I'm not sure what it was. And I just called this friend, as if I didn't remember she's seven months pregnant." Harry had to laugh at himself. Putting his actions into words always seemed to make them sound so ridiculous. "I'm just taking up their time, everyday. And they're all moving on with their lives. Getting married. Having kids." His mind drifted to Ginny and how he had seen her on Dean Thomas' arm a few weeks ago. "I'm almost twenty-one and I haven't done anything."

Riddle nodded, writing in his notebook as Harry spoke, occasionally looking up, let his cold gaze wash over Harry. "You said that you're at an academy. I would surely think that's something, right?"

Harry sat back. "I mean, yeah, I guess. But I'm only doing it because it's what my parents did. It's what people expect."

With a hum, Riddle fixed his eyes on Harry, who squirmed in his seat at the ice cold stare. "Am I correct in assuming you're quite keen on… living up to their memory, so to speak?" 

"I guess that's one way to put it," Harry huffed. Then realising it sounded like he did not want to do it at all, he was quick to correct himself. "I mean, I like it. I can't imagine doing anything else. It's just that everyone just assumes I'll be great at it."

Riddle was quiet for some time, writing in his notebook, and Harry's irritation over being unable to see what was written down grew stronger. If only he could sneak a, peak, perhaps the feelings of powerless would subside. Nevertheless, he remained sitting, looking blankly at the notebook in Riddle's hands. When the doctor finally spoke, it came as a relief.

"How old were you when they passed?"

The ever-present lump in Harry's throat got impossibly harder to swallow. "Fourteen."

"Where did you stay after that? With a family member?"

"Well, yeah. I would've stayed with my godfather but he got locked up when I was thirteen, so I had to live with my aunt and uncle."

To imagine a life where he had spent his teens with Sirius rather than the Dursleys was quite a lush fantasy, but Harry did not let himself linger on the idea for more than a second; especially not with Riddle present, seeming ever so interested in each and every one of Harry's facial expressions. 

"Do you ever visit your godfather?"

As much as Harry tried to relax into the plush chair, something was keeping him on edge. The room was full of trinkets, he observed instead of answering the question; a locket hung around a cup on the doctor's desk, a diadem sat perched on a model of the human brain. When his eyes shifted to the other side of the room he was forced to face the doctor, and the icy blue kept him pinned to his seat as he opened his mouth. 

"In prison?" Harry asked, and got a vague gesture from Riddle in return. "Sometimes. I mean, it takes a while to get there and sometimes he's busy…"

Harry gulped. Doctor Riddle had him locked. Legs crossed, long fingers holding the notebook on his lap, one might have expected it would be a comforting sight, but Riddle's oppressive gaze had Harry searching for his last breath of air, as if it had left his lungs without him noticing. It kept him speechless, even as the seconds trudged on and Riddle looked at him curiously. Unable to do much else, Harry looked back, mouth opening and closing until Riddle interrupted him with a cough.

"And do you feel guilty about not visiting him as often as you could?"

The air reappeared into Harry's lungs in a deep breath. "But I do visit him as often as possible. Sometimes I can't, though. He understands."

"I see," Doctor Riddle said, making a quick note. Harry was overcome by the desire to snap the notebook out of the doctor's hands, scratch out everything written on the damn page, give the doctor a good show. Before he could do anything, however, Riddle looked over to the clock and gave Harry a brilliant smile. "Well, it seems that that's all we had time for today."

"Oh," was all Harry had to say, watching as Riddle closed the notebook, standing up to walk over to his desk. 

"I've got you booked in for the same time next week, Harry. I will see you then."

"I - I didn't -" Harry tried to refute, but the words seemed to bounce around his mouth, tongue tied as he clutched the armrests of his chair. "I thought this was just a one time thing?"

Riddle smiled at him. It could have been reassuring, but instead the smile had his breath speeding up, a knot in his stomach forming. "Well, that's curious. My notes say you're booked in for another nine sessions," Riddle said, sighing as he opened his notebook again. "Yes, a total of ten sessions. Peculiar. Perhaps you've forgotten."

It was a statement, not a suggestion.

Shame burned in Harry's stomach at the disapproving look he received from Riddle. He had half the mind to protest, to stand up for what he knew was correct, but the doctor had him silenced with nothing but a pointed look.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Harry was about to speak, having gathered enough courage to do so. To his shock, Riddle was quickly by his side, opening the door, and Harry's opportunity to speak was over before he had the chance.

"Well, I'll see you next week, Harry."

The smile on Riddle's face seemed permanent at this point. Cold, calculated, harsh in a way that made Harry flinch when he stood up and Riddle's hand was on the small of his back, ushering him out.

"Okay, then… bye."

The door to Riddle's office shut behind Harry, and all he could do to make sense of the strange session was to let his fingertips idly trace the bloodied napkin in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the kudos guys! this is my first harry potter fic so i'm a bit nervous. comments are appreciated as always!


	3. Riddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the doctor.

Door shut, locked, blocking Tom from the rest of the world, it stood tall and firm when he let himself lean against it. It served to ground him, just as the locket in his line of sight served to remind him of where, of whom, he was. A gentle reminder of his worth, it hung proudly, just as the diadem sat next to it, shiny things to keep him distracted from the shiniest little thing he had encountered in a long, long time.

It had been almost impossible to not let his exterior slip and falter during the session, but now that he was all alone in his office, he smirked and chuckled. Such a shiny, pretty thing, the boy, with emerald eyes and messy hair, begging to be put in order. The wild behind it all would put even Bella to shame, Tom thought, and wiped the grin off his face before he sat down at his desk.

_Harry James Potter, 80/07/31._

_Session 1, 01/05/22._

Tom began to write.

_Possible psychological trauma. Patient's parents dead. No other family. Unwillingness to make eye contact. Tics (biting nails, etc.). Possible ASD. Well-kept exterior. Co-operative but guarded. Answers questions willingly. Patient would likely not benefit from CBT._

While others might take pride in being truthful, honest, fair, Tom had always taken pride in being able to make things the way he desired. There was nothing that was out of reach, something he had learned while still in school, and it had come in especially handy in his chosen profession. Who would question his authority? It was unlikely. Thus, Tom sat back in his chair, twirling his pen between two fingers and drinking in the power.

Harry had looked so small in that big armchair.

Of course, the boy had been right. He had been booked for a single session, which right off the bat told Tom that he would be a tough nut to crack. However Tom had never been one to back down from a challenge, and in his experience, he always got what he wanted in the end. Tom chuckled. The moment he had seen the boy, he had known. If he had not, he might have made the session as productive as possible, referred Harry to somebody else perhaps; but alas, he had known.

_Patient is likely to respond to psychotherapy. Weekly sessions, starting 01/05/29._

The boy did not necessarily have to consent to the additional sessions. There was no requirement for a signature. All it took was for Tom to write it down in his notebook, tell the receptionist to log it in the computer, and Tom would have free reign over the boy, once a week, for ten weeks.

Who would question him? Certainly not the boy himself. Some resistance was to be expected, that was a given fact, but there was something that told him the boy was used to following orders, take what he was given. It did not matter how Harry himself felt about it, only how he would respond. The feelings were simply an afterthought that could be dealt with in their own time.

Feelings, feelings, feelings. Trust your feelings. Feel your feelings. Listen to them. They are there for a reason, are they not? 

False.

When Tom had been at university, studying to get his master's degree in psychology, there had been an immense focus on the patients' _feelings_. It was enough to be sickening, and Tom could only take so much of it. Cognitive behavioral theory had been ruled out once he had the choice. When the patient learns to read their own feelings, trust their own feelings, _control_ their own feelings, Tom is rendered powerless.

That would not suit his goals. 

As a boy, Tom Riddle could not for the life of him understand the feelings of his peers, why they let themselves listen to the tug of their hearts. A different boy might have explored it, tried to understand why exactly he could not empathise in the way other children could, but Tom never had the need to understand. All he needed to know was that the feelings of others could be _bent_, and quite easily at that. All he had to do was give them a nudge, and they would do his bidding for him.

This served him well throughout his teenage years. He did not have friends, per-say, but rather people he had _bent_. Teachers and classmates trusted him wholly, just as he trusted them to follow him. So, they did. They gave him the highest grades, they made him class president, they gave him a scholarship for all his troubles. All in all, learning to keep people's feelings bent had let him live a good life.

It did not take him long to understand that studying psychology was what he had done all his life. Understanding it gave him insight into just how weak the minds of others were, how pliant. It fascinated him. Just how weak could people get? Was there a limit to the flaws of the human psyche?

Just _how far_ could he bend somebody before they broke?

It had been almost ten years since he had graduated from university, and his little experiment had been kept at bay, but the urge to rush in and _bend bend bend_ had been threatening to take over. The only thing keeping him from doing it was the knowledge that eventually, it would result in him having his license revoked.

No, Tom would have to wait for the right one.

Harry was an orphan; just like Tom. He simply had to laugh. An orphan, just like himself, with a very different life to his own. Oh, the different paths one takes in life...

Yes, Harry was the right one. The shell the boy kept around him was hard, but everybody cracks under enough pressure. All Tom had to do now was to find a way in under the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments and kudos! i appreciate it a lot!


	4. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and the doctor reflect on the day's session.

_Ten sessions._

Harry entered his flat panting. His trainers were soaked; as was his hair, messy from the wind and the rain. It stuck up haphazardly, stuck to his forehead and to the back of his neck. The rain had come in the middle of his run - not uncharacteristically, of course. After all, England tended to be surprising with its rapidly changing weather. Still, as he kicked off his shoes and leaned against the wall, he cursed the rain for forcing him to cut his round short.

It was quite strange, was it not? Ten sessions, when Harry had been so sure he had only signed up for one. Then again, his memory had gone all fuzzy since Ginny left, as if she had been the one keeping his brain in place. Bits and pieces had gone missing. Hermione's ultrasound. Ron's promotion. Shit, he had made a right fool of himself there, had he not?

"Ow, fuck." Harry gritted his teeth when the back of his thigh pinched, cramping wildly enough for him to lose his footing. "Bloody hell." Leaning forward to stretch out the muscle, his glasses slipped down his nose, and for a moment, in his pathetic studio flat, soaked in sweat and rainwater, with a cramp so bad his breath came in short gasps, Harry thought his existence had never been so sad.

Doctor Riddle had not judged him. Had he been cut-off? Perhaps. Creepy, yes. Judgemental, no. He had listened to everything Harry had said, as if assessing him, trying to get an image of his identity. Harry had no delusions, however, about their relationship. Of course Riddle was getting paid to listen to him without judgement; that was, after all, his job. Of course he needed to get an image of Harry before he could treat him. 

But the icy blues were _full_ of judgement.

The eyes left an imprint, Harry found, as he laid himself down on the sofa, turning the television on to keep his thoughts busy. Cold, calculated stare, Riddle was not one to be played with. He was probably well educated, Harry thought. Otherwise he would not be so expensive. A Cambridge or Oxford man, Harry was sure. But the eyes were a different thing. They hid wealth, knowledge, professionalism. Judgement.

A _spark_.

Soon, his thoughts drifted in focus. It had become quite hard to not drift lately, shifting in focus every three seconds, almost grasping at something only to have it slip right through his fingers.

Slipping, drifting, not quite sticking, Harry felt his eyelids droop as he laid on the sofa, remote in hand, sweaty and miserable in a comfortable daze.

Long days, even longer weekends of paperwork, Freudian theory, planning ahead and dreaming of what could be was all part of Tom's routine. He had grown accustomed to the painful sessions, dragging on and on each day. Childhood traumas, eating disorders, panic attacks - they were all dumped on him, and the bearers of these ailments saw no problem with this sort of behaviour. A young lady had come in with teeth marks on the knuckles of her right hand. She had expected Tom to sit there, listen to her evade questions all session, as if she did not realise just how obvious her nasty habit of purging everything she consumed was.

Halfway through the session, he had put her to the test and let his mask slip for a moment. After the session with Harry, he was on edge, and having to listen to this particular young lady had been the last straw. She had been shocked. Almost scared, it seemed. Realising his mistake, gathering his thoughts, Tom had put everything in place and referred her to an eating disorder clinic instead, much to her dismay. He had, after all, been her therapist for over two months.

Hopefully, he would get off with a mere warning. All therapists lose focus once in a while without getting their licenses revoked. He had to keep his focus for nine more weeks at most. It was a non-issue; Harry would take the bait. He had to.

Tom could not be upset about his behaviour on a day such as this one. There was no blame on his part, not when the perfect subject had presented itself to him so conveniently. Harry had hardly even questioned the further sessions, instead accepting it as fact, and that was all in all a good sign. There was however the issue of just how Tom would be able to get under his skin, bury himself in Harry's mind, bend him as far as Harry could bear until he would, inevitably, break.

Everybody breaks under enough pressure.

Everybody.

It was a non-issue.

The plan was an issue, however. Fleeting ideas had come and gone during Tom's ten years of looking for the right one, but as the years passed, his hope of finding the right one had faded and his focus had been thrown off. Thus, his day had been plagued with vague ideas and images of Harry willing, willing, willing, ready and open and beautiful with his big eyes and messy hair. When his hope had gone, he had found the right one, at the right time, and the power made him weak. Focus. 

Yes, Tom would put him in order.

All in its own time.

For now, Tom had to plan.

His three-bedroom house welcomed him, with its dark wood paneling and spacious rooms. The office in which he held his sessions was decorated to mimic this house, as best as it could, but nothing could quite live up to the cold, hard atmosphere of his bastard father's childhood home. It had fallen, quite conveniently, into Tom's lap when his father, who shared his name but knew not of his existence, had fallen ill out of the blue. Dead at the age of thirty-nine with no known heart problems. The heart attack had come as a surprise to coworkers and doctors alike.

How very tragic.

Tom had been eighteen. 

How very convenient. 

There was, for the moment, no time to dwell on Tom's unfortunate past, nor was there time to relax, for Tom had only one thing on his mind. 

The little vial was found inside an underwear drawer, and Tom swirled the contents to make sure it would still be functional. A drop of it, and the victim would be uncomfortable. A whole vial…

Next to the vial laid a bottle of pills. Tom had done his utmost to present it as professionally as possible, with a sticker and a name brand that Harry would likely recognise. All that had to be done was for his name to be put on it, for Harry to have it in his hands by the end of next week's session. That was the hard part. The vial, however…

Water would do. Tea, however, would subvert Harry's suspicions. He could then blame the way his body heated up on the warm liquid in his belly, but the other effects?

Tom had to close his eyes, compose himself in order not to get too excited, but the unbidden images invaded his mind without permission. He could not help himself. He had to wonder, how exactly would the boy react? Would he be scared? Shocked? Would those emerald eyes widen in surprise? Would he be ashamed, stumbling over his words, blushing behind the bird's nest, trying his utmost to avoid eye contact?

Perhaps he would try to seek comfort from Tom, but that idea was too good for Tom to even consider.

In his disorderly thoughts, Tom had gotten hard. With the vial in one hand, the other stroking himself, he let the forbidden images roam free in his mind. In his own time, he was sure that Harry would seek comfort from him sooner or later. All Tom had to do was present himself as not the problem, but the solution.

What got him over the edge was a particular image of Harry, eyes blown wide and mouth open in plea, down on his knees and begging, _begging_ for Tom to fix him.

The main point of Tom's grand experiment was not this, and he had to remind himself of that fact as he cleaned himself up. The hedonistic, pleasure-seeking part was but an added bonus, but only if it brought him something. Tom would have to see exactly what Harry responded to in his 'treatment plan' before he could even consider using the boy for anything else.

Patience. 

Control. 

As Tom sat himself down at his desk to look over the files for a different patient, he found his mind stubbornly set on Harry. The other patients were dull in comparison now that Tom knew of the treasure he had found.

The right one.

_Patience._

_Control._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting a clearer image of tom's past yet? no worries, it will all come in its own time. for now, patience. control. ;^)


	5. Toxins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry drinks tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new tags added!

Harry's lungs seemed to be in a perpetual state of emptiness. No matter how deep his breaths were, there was always a gap to be filled, a gap that never went unnoticed, like a splinter in his chest. It was so noticeable. Uncomfortably so. 

For all that was good in the world, Harry hoped his... condition, so to speak, would improve. On edge, agitated, constantly on the verge of _something_, he trudged through his routine. Something was coming. This, he felt in his very core, vibrating, setting him off at every minor convenience, as if the world was not seeing him clearly for what he was. Harry was a fraud. A poor imitation of greatness.

Thus, in the following week, Harry put his whole body into his training. Obstacle course, gym, mental exercise and a long run in the rain before dinner. Only then, when he could barely breathe, when his heart was beating out of his chest and he was attempting not to collapse, only then was the gap filled. Nothing else seemed to quite do the trick. Of course, Harry paid the price every morning, waking up from dehydration and horrible cramps, and yet he could not stop. The pros outweighed the cons.

Harry would never allow himself to stop for even a moment. If he did, his lungs might just collapse from being held so tightly in the grasp of something that was not distinctly his.

_Vial. Pill bottle. Tea._

Tom was set on what to do.

Pale fingers curved around the cup. It belonged to the clinic. Used for years and years. Its white colour had faded to grey. Marks on the bottom the many spoons that had scraped it. 

A teacup was not something Tom was keen on comparing himself to, and yet, he knew that he shared a few particular traits with it. The world regarded him as if he, too, belonged to the clinic, used for years and years, faded from the ambitious young man he had once been and turned into a tool to use and discard for people who could not manage their own lives. It was quite lazy, Tom thought, that they would expect him to give them all the answers rather than solve their own problems. The dependency these people showed was disgusting. These leeches had never had to take responsibility for their own lives, always relying on others to clean up their messes, over and over until it became too much and they finally turned to their ultimate saviour: Tom himself.

Tom would never be their saviour. Yes, he would play the part, give them what they wanted. Blame their misfortunes on their childhood rather than their own laziness, but when they were gone from his sight, he would put down in his notebook just how vile they were.

And oh, how could they not see it themselves? Tom wished desperately that they could see themselves from his perspective.

It was a pleasant surprise then, that Harry did not strike him as one of those people. Harry, independent Harry, guarded Harry with the thick shell and empty eyes that screamed at Tom to fill him with something, anything.

That would only make it all the more pleasurable to pick him apart until he was sobbing at Tom's feet and begging for Tom to put him back together. Harrywould follow every word and every whim when the treatment had been concluded. But for now, Tom had to reign himself in. 

All under control, Tom was thriving. He was set on what to do for the appointment, having left the pill bottle with the pharmacist, tea and vial ready on the table in front of him. It had not been hard to make the pill bottle blend in with the rest, but actually rather easy. A few smiles and charming words always worked wonders.

_Vial. Pill bottle. Tea._

Almost too easy.

Too perfect.

The clock struck half past three, and Tom left his office.

"Mister Potter?"

Harry had been dreading his next appointment with the doctor. Everyday at the academy, Harry was closely monitored, put under a microscope to be judged on his instincts, his physical fitness, his decision making, and despite the pressure, it was bearable. He could make sense of it, knew what was expected, knew how to do _right_.

In therapy, there were no guidelines, no mold to fit, and it was unbearable. After his first meeting, he had searched for something to make sense of it, to know what the doctor was really trying to dig up, but he found nothing. The uncertainty had made him almost cancel the appointment, but after an urgent, anxious phone call with Hermione, he had let go and gone to the clinic, urged by pure willpower.

His instincts told him to run.

Riddle told him to come.

Harry stood from his seat, and every step towards the doctor filled him with dread, like a clockwork of which he decided the pace, until Riddle was close and the control was seized. 

"Welcome back, Harry," Riddle said with a smile.

"Thanks," Harry said, automatic smile on his face as if he were a robot, and the realisation urged him to immediately wipe the silly grin off his face, and instead follow Riddle down the drab corridor, into the dark room, sink into the comfortable armchair, sink lower and lower until Riddle stood above him; a God in his own way with complete control of the room.

The man appeared taller than he was with the way he walked across the room, graceful, calculated, almost intimidating. There seemed to be purpose with every step, as with every word, and Harry almost let his anxiety run away with him before Riddle turned around, disarming himself.

"Would you like some tea, Harry?"

It took more effort than expected for Harry to reply. "Oh, yeah, yes please," he said, his words stumbling over each other. He cleared his throat.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Just one sugar."

"Right," Riddle said, and a few painful seconds passed in which Harry had all the time in the world to think the doctor's actions through. There was nothing dangerous there, but that was the doctor's job, was it not? He needed Harry to trust him, to think of this room as a safe space. 

Before he could let his mind wander further, Riddle turned back, putting a cup in Harry's hands with a warm smile.

Perhaps the doctor was not as threatening as Harry had imagined.

"Thanks," Harry said, taking a small sip.

Riddle even sat down with purpose. He had his own cup of tea, gently placed on the side table, and his black notebook in his hands, legs crossed, eyes focused in on only one thing. In his searching, Harry had found that therapists wanted their patients to feel _seen_. If that was one of Riddle's goals, he was doing a very good job of it. 

"How has your week been?" Riddle said, making a quick note at the top of the page.

Harry hummed, picking at the hem of his jumper before deciding on what to answer. "It's been okay. I've really just focused on studying, working out…"

"That's good." Riddle was smiling more than last time. Harry promptly picked up his cup of tea, taking two large sips to avoid having to meet him straight on. "You mentioned last time that you were having nightmares."

It was not a question, but it was. "I haven't really had any this week, but falling asleep is kind of hard, I guess." Riddle nodded, and Harry continued unprompted. The silence was too long, after all, and silences often left room for less than pleasant experiences. "Okay, well, I had this nightmare but it's weird and I don't really understand it."

Riddle hummed, making a note, and Harry suddenly remembered last week's frustration with being unable to see what was being written. "Do you know who Freud is?" Harry nodded. "You'll know that his theories are… debatable. He did, however, believe that your dreams are a way to access your unconscious mind." There was a pause, in which Riddle looked over Harry, eyes scanning each one of his facial features, eyes stern and cold, eerie in combination with his words. Harry took another sip of his tea. "Tell me about the dream."

It had started out slowly. In hindsight, the prickling of his fingertips and the dizziness should have alarmed him, but at the moment he had shrugged it off, ignored it. If only he had known that ten minutes ignoring it would not be an option, he might have reacted.

Heat was creeping up Harry's neck, over his cheeks, but he focused more on just how honest he should be about his retelling of the dream. His honest retelling would prove Freud more right than anything. "Well, there's my dad, and he's kind of… hurting my mum." Riddle made another note, and Harry did not know if that was what made his stomach turn uncomfortably. "He never, ever, did anything like that in real life, but in the dream he's just… bad. And I can't stop him."

Riddle nodded, looking up from his notebook. He seemed to be contemplating something, his eyes narrowed, head tilted in the slightest, as if captivated by what Harry had said. It caused the heat of Harry's cheeks to pick up in its power, almost overwhelming for a moment, before Riddle finally broke the silence.

However, the moment the doctor's lips parted, Harry's focus was hijacked, instead zeroed in on how the cup felt in his hands.

It was almost embarrassing how distinctly Harry could feel Riddle's cold, stern gaze wash over him. He could tell Riddle was asking him questions, and he could tell that he was answering them, but the exact words he used were a mystery to him. Nonetheless, his lips were still moving, his tongue numb but forming words, and he knew that in his dazed state his syllables were jumbled, words out of order. A mess.

_What the fuck is happening to me?_

There was no way for him to know how much time had passed. Ten minutes, thirty minutes, an hour? He had lost control over his mouth, lost control over his body. Was he dissociating? The realisation hit him, and as he brought the fact to light, he felt his control slipping further from his grasp, and yet…

There was the heat. It rushed through him, as if his blood was set aflame in his veins, spreading _everywhere._

_Everywhere._

Every part of his brain felt like it was seizing. Completely out of control, his lungs felt so wrong trapped within him, empty and too full at the same time, filling up and emptying faster than he would have liked. 

Cursing whatever damned him, Harry put his trembling hands in his lap, the pinpricks almost unbearable. His blood was too hot, his heart was beating too fast, and by God, it was everywhere. 

Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

To his horror, the heat travelled further and further, from his cheeks to his scalp, down his chest, the pit of his stomach, up and down his spine and down again, lower and lower and lower.

He was getting _hard._

It could have made him cry, but he was quite sure his body was too focused on trying not to betray his mind to produce tears. It was humiliating and relentless, and when he felt like he could not hold back anymore, when he was sure he was going to tumble, he groaned, bending over, only brought out of his misery when a voice cut through the haze.

"Harry?"

Relief came in the form of those ice cold, blue eyes across the room. Immediately when he caught Riddle's eyes, the fog lifted, his cheeks cooled down and his heart, his poor heart slowed down the instant Riddle smiled at him.

"Perhaps we should take a break. You're not looking too well."

The doctor never phrased anything as a question, Harry thought. Everything was absolute. What was Harry to do but trust him?

But Harry was still in a daze of confusion, he realised as he wiped the sweat off his brow. He was fucking _hard_, and Riddle was looking at him with such fucking _intent_. Fucking therapists. Stomach acid crept its way up his throat, and paired with the nausea, the way his blood set his body aflame, he could barely make out the words Riddle was saying.

"What?"

Riddle's eyes were kind and soft, their cold comfort keeping Harry at bay. "Perhaps we should end our session for now. We've only got ten minutes left."

"Yeah, okay."

"I've prescribed you some sleeping pills," Riddle said, making a note as he spoke. "Take one or two an hour before bed. We'll discuss how they're working for you next week."

"Alright," Harry said as he stood from his seat, all too aware of his _problem._ All he could do was hope that the doctor did not notice. 

Then again, Riddle did everything with intent, and the way he was focusing so intensely on Harry's eyes proved his every fear.

"Thanks," he said under his breath.

"Of course." Riddle smiled, stepping past Harry to open the door. "I'll see you next week, Harry."

An hour and a half had never felt so long.

Tom had to applaud himself for his forethought. Of course he would be affected by seeing Harry in such a state, and putting Harry's appointment as his last for the day had indeed proven to be a wise one. How could he possibly speak to any pathetic patient in need of a saviour when the room had only minutes ago been filled to the brim with pure _heat_? 

It had all exceeded Tom's expectations. Harry had looked so pretty, so small, sinking into the armchair, eyes wet and shimmery in their confusion, as if the boy had been completely out of control. In fact, it having exceeded Tom's expectations was likely a bit of a warning. The contents of the vial might have been too potent, considering just how _gone_ Harry had been for the majority of the session. Yet, the result was stunning.

So gorgeous. So helpless. 

In that state, Tom could have done anything he wanted to the boy.

Whatever he desired.

Most pleasing of all was how Harry had looked at him, sought him out, been comforted by Tom's eyes on him, as if he had been Harry's anchor in a sea of confusion. Oh, and of course, the sweet, satisfactory tent in Harry's trousers that had proven just how… effective Tom's 'treatment plan' had been. Tom thought of how Harry had trembled, stood up on unstable legs like a deer on ice, hands moving to defend what little dignity he had left.

Yes, the experiment had gone his way.

The boy had taken the first step to being bent right into Tom's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm having a lot of fun with this so far! my computer is broken so this was written on my phone )':


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